


Better Than Some

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the worst birthday John had ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Some

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP Amnesty Prompt #4 (birthday), JWP Amnesty Prompt #9 (domestic hazards), and JWP Amnesty Prompt #10 (memory lane). Once again, multitasking for the win!  
> Warnings: Pretty pointless. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.

It wasn’t the worst birthday he’d ever had. That honour still went to his 18th, when no one remembered it. Not a word of acknowledgement from any of his mates, from his co-workers, or from his family. And yes, there were mitigating circumstances, but as birthdays went, that one still stood out at the all-time worst he’d ever had, even worse than that one in Afghanistan, or the one with the plastic frog and persistent clown.  
  
This one was up there, though. Top five at the very least. John had long since left his teen years behind him, but the teenaged part of him was more than ready to throw an epic strop about the whole mess of a day. From slipping during his morning shower and banging his funny bone hard enough to double him over, which caused him to cut his forehead on the coverless brolly skeleton Sherlock had left hanging in there for some reason; to the endless parade of cranky patients on what was supposed to have been only a half-day at the clinic; to the Tube strike that had rendered the evening commute a multi-hour nightmare: this birthday sucked.  At least it was nearly over.  
  
John trudged up the stairs to 221b and wearily reached for the door. With his luck today, Sherlock would be experimenting on something stinky, or sulking because he hadn’t had a case.  
  
The door nudged open a bit without his having to turn the handle. John frowned, then hastily pushed it all the way wide, ready to dodge intruders, Mycroft, or a manic Sherlock who’d simply forgotten to shut it.  
  
It was none of the above. Sherlock sat calmly in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, contemplating a small cake with a single candle lit on top. John knew those kinds of candles; there was no way that it had been lit for more than thirty seconds or so, but Sherlock acted as if he’d been sitting there for hours.  
  
“Mrs Hudson sends her apologies, but you were rather later getting home than expected, and tonight’s her ladies’ night with Mrs Turner,” Sherlock said, still looking at the candle. “She supplied the cake, of course. There’s also takeaway. Mrs Hudson put it in the oven to keep warm.”  
  
A slow smile spread across John’s face that only grew wider when he saw that the takeaway in the oven was from Angelo’s, in the special kind of crimped-aluminium pan that Angelo only ever used for pre-ordered, take-and-bake, special-exception-only-because-it’s-you meals. His nose told him that it was his favourite lasagne without even having to peel back the foil.  
  
Mrs Hudson never went to Angelo’s except with them. The cake might be hers, but the meal was definitely Sherlock.  
  
Maybe this birthday wasn’t worst-five after all. “It smells great, and I’m starved. Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, but a small smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. “I believe the traditional expression is ‘Happy Birthday.’”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 8, 2015


End file.
